


Behind Glass

by Trojie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-13
Updated: 2011-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:56:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur isn't a voyeur - the kid next door is just an exhibitionist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Written as commentfic on Cherrybina's journal because of [a picture she posted of bb!Tom Hardy leaning up against a rain-covered window](http://cherrybina.livejournal.com/189714.html) and then because of Ninja_orange egging me on. THANK YOU, LADIES.
> 
> Notes on the underageness of this: This was written to be jailbait!Eames. It therefore involves age-diffference. However, I made a conscious decision to make Eames seventeen, which therefore makes him over the age of consent in NZ, the UK, and probably other places in the world as well, so while I've tagged it underage, YMMV. The location of the fic, also, is not mentioned. Feel free to imagine this taking place in a country of your choice.

Arthur really, really needs to get a fucking set of curtains. It is not dignified to still have a sheet up over your window when you're living in your own house, not a student flat, and have a job and everything. A job that requires you to be up at 7.30 in the morning so that you can be at work by 8.30, which is still a bit of a novelty after five years of class at ten and not always bothering to go, if he'd done the readings already and had better things to do.

7.30, coincidentally, appears to be the time that the kid (kid? Arthur doesn't know his _name_ let alone his age but he's got to be at least seventeen. Arthur isn't sure if he can get away with calling seventeen-year-olds kids just yet - not until he gets a cane and a sign saying to keep off the grass to go with the mannerism, anyway) next door gets up as well, which Arthur would never even have _known_ if it weren't for the fact that the sheet keeps falling off the curtain rail where he has it hooked, and he's always too tired after work to tack it up properly.

The ... kid ... next door doesn't have curtains either, apparently. Or he leaves them open. Arthur keeps catching sight of him dressing in the mornings; a flash of thigh one day, the round curve of his ass the next, the broad expanse of his shoulders maybe another day (and Christ, how does someone that young even have shoulders like that? Arthur is maybe a little irritated that he grew tall but never grew out. Also that he still gets carded at bars, but that's beside the point).

And one day what he catches is the kid's eye, and it's grey and mischievous, and Arthur stops midway through tying his tie because his brain is suddenly blank, and the familiar ins and outs and pull-throughs of a half-Windsor are suddenly as incomprehensible as string-theory. The kid quirks an eyebrow at him, and then _winks_ , and scratches idly at his neck before sliding his hand down his naked torso to do up his fly, which is hanging open. He then turns away to shrug a t-shirt on, and then he's gone, but Arthur can't actually move for another thirty seconds until his brain climbs back out of his pants.

He tacks the sheet up properly that night and tries not to think about the whole thing.

The rain starts on Thursday, and by Friday evening, when Arthur comes home, the damp is such that the tacks have worked their way out of his wall and his sheet is down again, and he can't be bothered to deal with it. He sighs, chucking his jacket down on the bed, and starts wrestling with the shirt and tie, meaning to get into some trackpants and a t-shirt and go blob in front of the TV with Die Hard or something equally satisfyingly brainless on, when light and movement catch his eye.

Next door's kid is leaning up against his window in a baggy jersey, his arm up to brace him against the glass. His bedside lamp or something must be on, because there's a faint glow behind him, and it's like he's been waiting. As soon as Arthur spots him, he winks like he did the other day, and then Arthur realises what the movement that caught his eye was - the kid has his hand down his fucking pants, tucked in behind the open ends of his fly and moving very, very gently. He sees where Arthur is looking, and licks his lips.

Arthur sits down on the end of his bed. Heavily.

The kid grins, holds up a finger as if to say 'Wait a sec,' and then drops his jeans. He's got no finesse, not even bothering to step out of them, and more importantly, he's got no underwear on. His long sleeves and the hem of his jersey don't hide much from Arthur's eyes, staring through the water-streaked glass and air between them as the kid puts his hand back and strokes himself, his grey gaze boring steadily into Arthur's.

Oh right, that loud noise in Arthur's ears is his own breathing.

The kid's trying not to rush things, Arthur can see that; he knows he's putting on a show and he's enjoying it, but he's a kid, what does he know about self-control? Arthur presses the heel of his palm into his own erection, trying to pretend to himself he doesn't want to jerk off. Oh no. He's cool. He has no idea why this kid is reenacting some kind of crazy porno in front of his window, and it's _not doing anything to him_.

The pressure of his hand is too much and he moans. The kid grins like he's won a prize. Arthur's fingers find their way to his fly and the fact that he's undoing his trousers does not mean he's about to join in this jerk-off session. Nope. Never. But there's something hypnotic in the motion of that other hand through the space between them, in the way its pace wanders when Arthur shifts his knees apart and falls off completely when Arthur leans back on one hand and gives in to the fact that, yeah, he's watching, and he's enjoying it.

The kid's eyes light up when Arthur finally gives in and pulls his dick out, but it just reinforces what Arthur meant about self-control, because the kid's rhythm up against the window is shot to hell - pulling and pushing at himself now, the fingers of his other hand up against the window-pane clenching and twisting like he's trying to drag on the reins of some invisible creature, and Arthur is barely paying attention to his own fingers sliding up and down - his whole focus is on watching that gorgeous fucking face fall apart in front of him.

The kid's eyes flutter shut when he comes, his teeth pulling jaggedly at his bottom lip, and he paints the glass wet on the inside like the rain's painted it wet on the outside, his breath huffing it cloudy where he's collapsed against it. When he opens his eyes again, that's when Arthur follows suit, over the edge into orgasm, because _fuck_ , no-one's ever looked at Arthur like that before.

When Arthur comes back to himself, the kid is gone, and the breath-white fog on the window says EAMES and a phone number. LOOKING FOR HOLIDAY WORK. ODD JOBS. LIKE REPLACING CURTAINS :P


End file.
